by Mary Campisi
Once this ordeal was over and done, she would send him on his way. Between Madeline, Annabelle, Regina, and Sarah, they would take over the care of the animals and the household repairs. How difficult could it be to hammer a few boards and slap paint on a door? Annabelle appeared to have quite a hand at precision if the amount of needlework she had completed were any indication. Madeline bet the woman could hammer a nail, dead on. Regina could wield a paintbrush and feed the animals. And Sarah? Madeline sighed. She could fetch them water and help Mrs. Fowler prepare meals.
Sarah slid the butter dish toward the object of Madeline’s annoyance. “Creamed butter. Made just last week.”
That blasted smile deepened.
“You ever slept in a main house before?” Regina eyed him with purpose and a plan.
He shrugged. “A time or two.”
The manner in which he said it rang untrue. The man was hiding something, but what could it be? Madeline was about to press the issue when Annabelle jumped in.
“Where?” Annabelle missed no opportunity to pinpoint the man’s origin and travels, her continuous effort to determine if he had some connection to her dead husband. At present, it would appear he did not.
Simon Schilling took great interest in covering his biscuit with butter. No person spent that long ministering to a piece of food unless he was hiding something—namely, the truth.
“Mr. Schilling?” Annabelle persisted. “What locations?”
“Bath and Cornwall mostly.”
“London?” she asked with a catch in her voice.
He shook his head. “I’ve only been once and for no more than two days.”
Indeed. Had not Harold called his nephew a bit of a wanderer? She should have paid closer attention but in truth, she had not been interested. Men rarely lived up to their credentials and she had thought Simon Schilling would prove no different. In that she had been correct.
“I wish I could go to London,” Gregory piped in. “And Rome, and Paris and Athens.”
“You travel there at least once a week,” Madeline said, patting him on the hand.
He frowned. “Books don’t count, Maddie. I want to visit them like Weston does.”
“Gregory, I’m sure Mr. Schilling has no desire to hear you complain about your misfortune.”
“Oh, but I do,” Simon Schilling said, and added, “want to hear about your brother and his many travels.”
Gregory turned to him, his cheeks awash with excitement. “He leads a life brimming with adventure. And he’s very good at cards. He once won enough in a single night to purchase a new phaeton.”
“Indeed?”
Gregory bobbed his head three times. “He said it was the grandest phaeton in all of London.”
Simon Schilling inclined his head and asked, “Did you not see it?”
It was the very manner in which he asked the question that told Madeline he knew there was no phaeton. How on earth had he guessed when she had waited weeks for the arrival of the conveyance only to later learn it was not arriving at all?
“Robbers highjacked it as Weston returned home. They bloodied his nose, gave him a black eye and ripped his best jacket.”
“How horrible.” Sarah clutched her belly as if to protect her unborn babe from all manner of harm, present and future.
Regina snorted. “Robbers don’t usually do a body harm. They want the loot. You sure they was robbers and not them that’s come collecting from somebody who stole from them?”
“Weston’s no thief!” Gregory said, his words filled with conviction.
Regina shrugged and slid a glance Madeline’s way. “Just sayin’.”
“So, your brother lost his new phaeton,” Simon Schilling said, obviously attempting to divert a verbal altercation between Gregory and Regina. “What other winnings has he brought home?”
“Hmmm.” Gregory scratched his head. “A pair of calfskin gloves. A silk scarf. And once he brought me a timepiece.” His voice dipped, “But it didn’t work.”
“I see.” And then, “Did he ever lose?”
Madeline fidgeted in her chair. Simon Schilling had just asked the very question she had wondered each time Weston returned from his travels and regaled them with tales of his winnings. The telling was so sensational, the winnings even more so, but alas, he never produced more than meager offerings meant to satisfy Gregory’s fascination with what Weston termed an extraordinarily exciting life.
Gambling and games of chance had ruined more than one family and yet, Weston denied ever coming up on the bad end of a card game. Until this time. Even now, he swore Douglas Fontaine had double-crossed him.
Mayhap they had double-crossed one another. If only she could say Weston’s involvement in this was purely as a victim, but with her eldest brother anything was possible. No matter who was on the side of right, the rescue of Lingionine depended on her ability to outfox the veritable fox. She had no doubt she could and would do it, women being superior in the area of intellect and cunning. Her only concern was that she required the assistance of a questionable partner. She glanced at her soon-to-be pretend husband and found him staring back at her, a wicked grin smeared on his face.
If she could face the likes of Simon Schilling, most certainly she could face Douglas Fontaine.
* * *
He rather enjoyed the quaintness of the small library which harbored none of the overzealous ambitions as the one at home, which boasted more books than the governor of Virginia’s library. This room had a quiet earnestness about it, dark wood and draperies with paintings of flowers and animals. There were books stuffed everywhere, even where they most clearly did not belong, such as peeking beneath cushions of chairs and on windowsills. Amazing anything could be found with such clutter, more amazing still the maids had not been sent to tidy up.
Unless there were no maids. Unless Lady Madeline Munrove and her three questionable companions acted as such. Since his arrival, he had heard mention of a cook and a scullery maid. Damn the conniving scoundrel who had left Madeline with a household to run, an obvious lack of funds, and a brother who thought money could not be lost in gaming. The younger Munrove would learn soon enough the dangers of betting what one cannot afford to lose.
Douglas perused the first row of books on the tall shelves. Socrates. Shakespeare. Plato. Did Madeline subscribe to words of love and redemption? He scanned the second row. The Age of Astronomy. A Mathematician’s Mind. Reason and Logic. Or did she subscribe to the laws of common sense and reasoning? He would love to discuss such attitudes with her but how could he when she thought him incapable of piecing together a three letter word? If she only knew he could string books in several languages, perhaps she would view him in a different light.
He pictured her huffing about, slicing him with those damnable eyes that said she’d rather stomp on him than acknowledge he possessed a shred of worthiness. The question was, did such an attitude apply to the entire male species, save Gregory, or did it apply only to Douglas?
That, he intended to find out before he departed Lingionine, though for what workable purpose, he could not say. He had always liked puzzles and Madeline Munrove was a rather large, rather convoluted, and extremely curious one. Equally curious was the wide choice of reading material. He scanned the remainder of the bookshelf and caught site of a thin volume shoved into the very bottom of the case, so tightly wedged between the edge of the shelf and another book as to be barely visible. Douglas bent to retrieve it and had to give the book a good yank to release it from its position. He glanced at the title and laughed. The location of the book was no coincidence. Madeline had certainly placed it there, a lowly position to match her opinion of a book titled, The Model Wife.
Douglas carried it to the sofa and flipped to the dedication—To Those Men who strive to find the Model Wife, may she be beautiful, fruitful, and never forget her place. Surprising Madeline had not tossed the book in the fire. He read on, enraptured by the ridiculousness of the commentary and equally taken by tho
ughts of Madeline’s response to such outrageous statements. What had she done the first time she read about the necessity of a woman permitting her husband all manner of dalliances, including but not limited to the maids in residence—for the purpose of sparing her the baser and perhaps distasteful aspects of a physical relationship? Had she cursed and demanded an audience with the author? The possibilities were more entertaining than the book, so much so, he did not hear Madeline enter.
“Mr. Schilling? I’m sorry I was detained.”
Light shimmered off her dark hair and face as she stood just inside the doorway, lips slightly parted, eyes shining, a vision in white. He would like to taste that vision, untie the fine laces of her bodice and slip the gown from her shoulders. He stared harder. And then he would like to lick—
“I will not read that book.”
The angel before him transformed into a viper with a venomous tongue and eyes that slashed flesh and were at this very moment working damnably hard to slash his flesh. Douglas held up the book that had given her such an upset. “This book?”
She turned beet red. “Yes.”
“Why? I find it quite colorful.”
Her tiny nostrils flared and he half believed she would blow flames from them given another second or two. “Have you not heard the phrase, ‘Do not judge a book by its cover’?”
Of course she thought he was referring to the brilliant blue cover. What else would she think when she believed him incapable of reading? She had severely underestimated her opponent but he would let her believe she controlled the situation. For now. Douglas closed the book and set it on his knee. “I was given to believe the choice of reading material was mine to make.”
Her face scrunched up like a week old prune. “That is not a good choice. It is ridiculous, superfluous, and totally asinine.”
He buried a grin. “Asinine?”
“Yes. Asinine.”
Oh, she most certainly did not like this book. Douglas grew even more curious to read its contents. He leaned against the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. “I am beginning to think you, Lady Madeline, are a conniver.”
“A conniver?”
“Yes. One who feigns ignorance to obtain information for cross-purposes.” Otherwise known as a liar…a family trait, no doubt.
“I am not a—” she stumbled over the word “—conniver. I have never feigned anything, certainly not ignorance.”
She did seem rather put out by his comment. Douglas rubbed his jaw and considered her distress. “So you say and yet, you have not opened your brother’s wardrobe to me or his quarters. Now, you refuse to read a book I selected.” He picked up the book and slapped it against his knee. “That, fair lady, is known as conniving and is in very poor taste, I might add.”
“As if you would know good taste if it sat on your head.” She snatched the book from him and said, “Fine. I shall read the book but be warned, it is exceedingly ridiculous.”
“Noted.”
She plunked down on the opposite end of the sofa and opened the book.
“Madeline?”
“What?”
“I can’t see from that distance.”
She glared. “You said nothing about seeing, only listening.”
“Conniver,” he muttered.
She huffed and scooted toward him. Her gown brushed his breeches and settled in a fluff against the edge of his thigh. “There,” she said, holding the book between them. “Can you see now?”
He smiled. “Perfectly.”
Madeline rolled her eyes. “‘To Those Men who strive to find the Model Wife, may she be beautiful, fruitful, and never forget her place.’”
“Interesting.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Go on.”
“‘There are specific rules to the proper selection of a model wife. One must be aware of these and follow them accordingly so as not to commit the grievous error of securing an improper wife who will bring disorder, embarrassment, and if permitted, disgrace to her husband.’” Madeline shot him a glance. “Must we read this?”
“Of course we must,” he said with enough gusto to warrant another eye rolling. “I should want to know the rules in order to avoid disorder, embarrassment, and disgrace.”
“I fear you have already suffered those.”
Oh, but she had a wicked wit. “I meant in the selection of a wife,” he countered.
“You want a wife?”
Nobody wanted a wife. “Would you care to apply for the position?”
“I most certainly would not!”
“Is that a no? And is it specific to me, or to all men?” he asked, as curiosity beat out common sense.
“I rather prefer my life as it is.”
Yes, he knew the feeling. Perhaps they had more in common than he thought. “Good, then I shall not take the rejection personally.”
She laughed at that. “I doubt you would take any rebuff personally.”
He tried not to smile as he gazed into eyes that made him forget they belonged to a woman whose home he’d come to claim. So blue, so clear…so intoxicating.
Madeline cleared her throat and said, “Yes, well, I suppose we should proceed with this nonsense.” She found her place and began, “‘A model wife does not express an opinion unless it is the same as her husband’s and then only if asked. She will not gaze into another man’s eyes for any purpose as this may be looked upon as a sign of wanton behavior. A model wife must not be too intelligent so as not to overshadow her husband and make him appear less intelligent. She must act shy and reserved, again for the express benefit of permitting her husband’s superiority to prevail.’” She looked up and said, “I daresay, I am surprised there are any weddings with all of the restrictions this book requires.”
He agreed. The book did not bode well for a wife. Did couples actually give credence to such nonsense? “It is rather severe and one-sided. Where ever did you come upon it? Moreover, why have you not destroyed it?” The latter was the greater curiosity.
“It was a gift,” she murmured.
“A gift?” From a man? Of course, from a man, he could tell by the way she spoke. Wistful and yearning, two terms he would not have associated with Madeline.
She did not meet his gaze when she said, “My brother brought this back from one of his journeys. It was meant as a simple jest, for he well knew my disposition did not lend me to comply with The Model Wife’s principles. He told me to have a grand laugh and then toss it in the fire.” Her fingers stroked the page. “But I could not.” She looked at him then and he wished to God she hadn’t. “How could I possibly discard the only gift my brother ever gave me?”
How indeed? The scoundrel could not even give his sister a proper gift. “I should like to meet this brother of yours.”
“Weston?” She looked positively aghast. “Oh, I think not.”
“Why?” He had ten reasons why, beginning and ending with thief.
She hesitated, as if weighing what and how much to divulge. “My older brother is in constant search of entertainment, a merrymaker if you will. His stay at Lingionine is always short but quite explosive. Schedules and routines are tossed out. Rules are ignored, which Gregory adores. Supper may be at six o’clock or it may be at eleven, dictated by Weston and his whims. He laughs and jokes and will hear nothing of ledgers or obligations. I daresay, it is all rather exhausting.” She paused and considered him before adding, “You and he would not do well.”
He agreed but how did she know that? “Why?”
“‘Tis obvious from the manner in which you eat your peas.”
Now she had him. The woman was indeed a complicated puzzle. And that intrigued him. Immensely. “The manner in which I eat my peas? Pray, Madame, what would such a routine task indicate?” He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
She cleared her throat. “You line them up in tidy rows of four, no more than five. When you scoop up a forkful, you proceed to straighten the peas that have skittered amok as a r
esult of your fork’s intrusion. Quite telling.”
“I do no such—” He stopped, considered her claim, and amended, “Mayhap a time or two.”
She raised a brow. “You’ve done it with carrots and corn too. And you cut your pancakes in quadrants. Eight I believe.”
“Nine,” he corrected.
“Ah.” She smiled.
“The fact that I am a precise eater does not prove your brother and I would not get along.” The more he learned about the man, the easier it would be to call upon his many failings when he presented Madeline with the deed to Lingionine. Unfortunately, she appeared quite protective of her brother despite his obvious and numerous lackings.
“There are other issues as well, perhaps a bit less noticeable to the casual observer.”
“Of which you are not?”
“Quite so.” She tapped a finger against her chin and studied him. “When you enter a room, you take in the inhabitants and your surroundings before you speak. A beat, sometimes five, elapses before you utter a word. Weston begins spouting before he is even aware what he is spouting about or whom he is spouting to.” She chuckled. “He has gotten into some rather interesting predicaments on occasion.”
“So you are saying, I am a thinker and your brother is not?” He had thought the man’s rash actions and pompous attitude during their short time together had been the result of too much whisky. Mayhap the man was merely an idiot.
His sister did not see it that way. “Weston can make immediate adjustments to situations and circumstances.” She eyed him with what could only be pity and said, “Some are more talented than others.”
Douglas suffered a breath and spoke with as much patience as he could manage, “So it would appear.” Weston Munrove could make all of the adjustments to situations and circumstances he wanted, he had still gambled away the family home.
“And then there is the matter of dress which would be obvious to anyone.” She gestured to his shirt and breeches, or rather her brother’s shirt and breeches which were two sizes too small and damned uncomfortable. “Weston prefers color and decorum. You’ll not find him without a cravat or jacket in mixed company.” She paused. “Ever.”
